The Short Story Competition

Time's Edge

The tread of Roman legions filled the imagination of Arnold Jones in his study as he strove to compose his fifth historical novel. He had done the 19th century and the Napoleonic period and his publisher said that too many writers had plundered those areas, why not try ancient Roma? So here he was, but the going was heavy.

His method was to write the first draft by hand before transferring to the computer. Now he threw down his biro in disgust, opened the glass patio door and stepped across onto the lawn.

The camp was busy. Slaves darting about, armourers repairing shields dented in battle with the barbarians of Ultima Thule, this most northerly outpost of empire. Tanners were attending to torn leather tunics and smiths sharpening swords. Smoke rose from the fires under cooking pots.

The captive barbarian was a skinny youth who looked as if he could do with a good Roman dinner, but he wasn't going to get one.

"He was spying on us," said the centurion."What do we do with him?"

Arnold drew his short sword and, with a swift movement learned through two years of campaigning in Gaul, stabbed the youth through the heart.

"Take him to the village and hang him from a tree as a warning." He had to shout above the din of activity around him. He swiped his sword through the air to throw off some of the blood, then walked back into his study.

Helen, his wife, came rushing in."What was all that shouting about?"

"What shouting? I didn�t hear any."

"It was you.'Take him to the village and hang him.' You don�t have to act your words. It's a novel you're writing, not a play."

"I was not shouting at all."

"You were. I don't know what the neighbours must have thought."

"I do not believe I uttered a word."

Helen walked out with a concerned expression. It had happened again and she was getting worried.

The following day's work did not go any better. Maybe he should have tried some other historical period for this novel. There was plenty of history from which to choose.

Frustration mounted. Once again he put down the pen and walked out onto the lawn. Through the glass the day had seemed fine but it was raining on the camp.

Most days in this damp, chilly climate seemed to be wet. He resented being sent here on the second invasion, but mighty Caesar in far away Rome had heard of pearl beds along the coast and the tin mines exploited by Phoenician traders, plus in the north there was salt.

He shouted to a centurion "Go to the village and bring me a girl. Be sure she has some fat on her bones." The centurion raised an arm in salute and hurried away. His commander liked the local females and, anyway, women and wine were the natural prerogatives of a legion, whatever your rank.

Arnold returned to his study. Helen was already there. "You were shouting again."

"I was not."

"Bring me a girl you shouted at the top of your voice."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I just stood there for a breath of fresh air."

Now, Helen was really worried. Over dinner that night she said gently "I do feel that you have been getting strained lately. The problems you are having with this book are getting you down. Will you see a psychiatrist, please?"

"You think I am going barmy."

"You are not barmy, dear, but you are under stress. A specialist might show you how to cope with it. Do let me make an appointment."

He finally agreed. They were in a private health scheme so Helen was able to make a speedy appointment. Arnold did not work the next day, but on the following day he forced himself to go into the study and make an attempt. Only the words would not come. Damn it, he would not give way to this. He walked out onto the lawn.

Chaos! Barbarians attacking, centurions shouting orders, slaves fleeing, clash of swords on shields as men strove to form a defensive square, and between the tents came charging a barbarian chariot with blades fixed to its wheels. Arnold ran back into his study. Helen was right. He did need help.

Dr Joseph Sweitzer was, their GP had assured them, one of the best in his field. He listened with growing interest as Arnold related what seemed to happen to him when he stepped out onto the lawn.

Plainly enough there was a new syndrome here. Dr Sweitzer was due to attend that conference in Vienna in a few weeks. Maybe he could write a paper on this case.

"Let me come to your house," he said. "It will be useful for me to see the environment in which you experience these symptoms. I will face them with you and together we will dispel them."

Two days later Dr Sweitzer steered his car into the driveway of the Jones's large house complete with swimming pool. If he milked this case cleverly enough he might make enough money to buy that villa in Barbados. Once give publicity to hitherto unheard of symptoms and there would be a rush of patients claiming to have the same. The copycat syndrome was well known in psychiatry. Arnold led him into the study. "Please leave us," said Dr Sweitzer to Helen and she went out. "Now, sit at your desk and pick up your pen. Imagine you have been staring at that blank sheet of paper for an hour. Inspiration will not come. That is how it happens, yes?"

"That's exactly how it is," Arnold agreed.

"All right. Now put down the pen and we will walk out into your garden and face your imaginary demons together, and together we will commence the treatment to dispel them."

Arnold led him out onto the lawn. Chaos!

Arrows were flying through the air, and that barbarian chariot came, its blades scintillating evilly in the sun.

Arnold screamed and ran inside where he hid under his desk. He heard Helen come running in and her own piercing scream of horror.

Some hours later, Arnold sat in the local police station, head in hands. Helen, as the press put it the next day, was "in a state of trauma and being cared for by relatives at a private address."

At the subsequent trial, Arnold was, of course, declared guilty but insane and ordered to be detained in a suitable institution.

The police were, however, never able to find whatever fearsome weapon had been used to inflict those terrible wounds on Dr Sweitzer's legless body. Nor could they explain the wheel tracks that led across the lawn.

The young doctor in charge, trapped in a boring job, was intrigued by this case, in particular by Arnold's ravings about having fallen over the edge of time. It looked like an entirely new syndrome. If he studied this one carefully he might even write a paper about it.